


Little Lessons in Blindness

by LinearA



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindfolds, F/M, Feelings, Kinktober, Or so I would imagine, Power Dynamics, Smut, That's Not How The Force Works, not actually sure how the Force does work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 09:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinearA/pseuds/LinearA
Summary: After Crait, Kylo re-captures Rey and holds her prisoner.  He still wants to teach her a lesson or two, and she has things to show him, too.





	Little Lessons in Blindness

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope this makes sense! But anyway the prompt for October 8, 2018 was "blindfolds." And I tried to do smut without feelings, and then I failed at that.

“What would you like to learn?” Kylo asks her. He’s brought her to a blank room with mats on the floors. He doesn’t bother binding her hands anymore, but if anything she feels more trapped than she was when he first locked her into a chair. She is alone here.

“Nothing from you,” she spits.

A tiny silence, and a motion in the Force around him that she can’t identify. “You still think you can escape.” She doesn’t condescend to reply. She can feel him pressing closer to her feelings. It’s a strange feeling, warm and smothering, like a windless Jakku noon in her mind. Like a windless Jakku noon, it feels drowsy and dangerous. “You still think I’ll be defeated.”

She concentrates on holding her feelings steady. “I know you will be.”

His feelings are not steady. They don’t howl around her as they have in the past; he is doing something with them. But she can feel that they’re there. “Then you should be eager to learn from me. So you can be better prepared to fight against me.”

“I’m not interested in the Dark,” she says, chin raised.

“That’s fine,” he says, sharp and fast. “This can be done with the Light, I’m told. We’ll see how it goes.” And he holds out a gloved hand with a little remote training sphere in it. 

She’s seen him bat away blaster bolts with his saber, but it turns out he can freeze them in place empty-handed. And she must, grudgingly, admit that this is useful to know about him (otherwise she might have made disarming him key to some plan) and that it would be useful to be able to do herself.

But then he holds out the blindfold, and she rears back like a frightened animal.

“It’s how Luke taught me,” he says. “It’s how Ben Kenobi taught him.”

If he’d stopped with Luke, she would have snapped at him. _Yes, we both know how well you did with Luke’s training._ But something about hearing the name _Ben_ from his own lips stills her. She doesn’t agree; she doesn’t nod; she holds still and waits and lets him sense her assent. 

He walks towards her hesitantly, as if he expects her to change her mind. He steps behind her. He lays the blindfold gently over her eyes, and ties it slowly, slowly, until it’s tight.

She hears him step away. “Now,” he says softly.

The little bolt stings her hand. “I knew where it was, anyway,” she says.

“You knew where the sphere was. Not where the bolt was. Put yourself – put more of your – you’re too much within yourself.”

“Where else should I be?”

He doesn’t answer at first, but he holds in a breath just a little longer than the one before it.

“Your feelings. Your sense of – of what’s you. What’s yours. Push it – outwards.”

She’s a bit exasperated by this vague set of instructions, and he can tell. “You went into my mind once,” he says, very low. “Like that. But – softer. In every direction.”

She feels the Force _inside_ herself, has always felt it there first of all, has centered her power in centering herself. But she tries to remember what she had done, before, the way she had pushed back against him. Tries to generalize, make it a wave around her instead of a shove.

She feels it, then, the battery in the sphere, the little ticking mechanisms. And she feels him, too, his heartbeat _(too fast)_ and the fragile race of oxygen through him. And even before she can put words to the feelings she discovers in him, she remembers when she has been elsewhere than within herself – she had touched his hand, over the fire, and been _with him,_ wherever he was.

And because he, too, is reaching outside of himself, he feels her remember, and feels her feel him feel her, and he releases the training sphere. Her hand barely twitches as she bats the bolts away.

“Good,” he whispers. “You can exercise more control than that. I know you can.”

She lets herself run outward from herself, through the Force, along the Light, as if she were light herself. Everything is hers to control, then; the sphere moves only because she allows it; it fires only because she doesn’t stop it, and stopping the bolt in the air is as easy as it would be to let it go. Everything is hers to control. Except – 

“Except me,” he says. She can’t see his face, but his feelings are in the air around him like bright birds – resentment, pride, satisfaction, hurt, longing, adoration. She feels it again, the strange twist he makes, that she couldn’t identify before, and the air around him is empty. “You can’t control me.”

“Can’t I?” she says, slowly, and she tilts her head a little. “Hot-tempered people are very easy to control.”

“Are we?” Hurt and resentment, again, and pique. And a strange feeling, an excitement like a challenge, a hungry aggression. But only a brief flash. He twists once more, swallowing his feelings into himself. “Try me, then.” But she is outside herself, she is with him, and she inhales. Calls them back to her. _Oh, I wounded your pride, did I? It annoyed you, did it, to think I might have power over you? You wanted to prove otherwise?_

He exhales, long and slow, and this too she remembers from the night she touched his hand.

 _“I_ touched _your_ hand,” he corrects her. But she had not been acting consciously that night. Now she is; now she feels what he’s doing, the way he reached towards her to find that thought. She pushes fiercely back.

“We touched each other.”

“We did,” he agrees. “For a moment.” She gasps; his hand is against hers. She has been touching everything, been being with everything in the room so completely with her mind that she has forgotten the edges of her body. He traces a finger over the line of her hand, up to her wrist. When did he take off his gloves? She inhales shakily, struggling to maintain her steady presence, her awareness of the room, as he leans in close. “We could have touched each other more.”

She is with him, and his ferocious excitement burns hot. He whisks it away from her. “What do you mean?” 

He wraps his hand around her wrist. “You let me teach you something.”

“Yes.” She toys with the bolt, makes it shake and vacillate in the air.

“I could show you other things.” He slips his hot mouth down into the curve of her neck. She feels his breath against her skin, and then his tongue, and all her senses run rushing back into her blinded body as she moans. He hisses against her skin, and seizes control of the frozen bolt. It strikes her in the back, and she jolts, pushing herself close against him. The press of his body against hers is as hot and dangerous as the press of his mind. He wraps his other arm around her, holding her there. “I could show you how _easy_ it is to control _hot-tempered people.”_

She reaches down to the only other part of him she has touched before, and digs her fingers into his heavy thigh at the same time that she pushes out again with her mind, refusing to be confined to the body he has blinded and trapped against him. He hisses, and he tells her _yes;_ within his mind he tells her, _yes, you do things to me. You hurt me. You make me want you. You betray me. But you do not_ control _me._

His fingers rub at her waist and she squirms, limited, forced back into her own body. “Let me,” he whispers in her ear. “Let me show you.” He pulls away a little but she doesn’t need the Force to tell her where he is; she can feel his quick, unsteady breath against her face.

She stops trying to push outward and returns to where she is strongest. Like stepping into the shade, she withdraws into herself. _Let him do his worst,_ says something cold and fearless in her, and something hot and starved says, _yes, yes, you want this; let it come._

“Yes,” says Rey, tilting her head back so that his breath falls across her mouth.

His mouth trembles as it covers hers, and his hands are quick and rough as they strip off her clothes. She opens her mouth to him, and he gasps, and when he slides his tongue urgently into her mouth, she whines. His hands stroke everything they uncover, arms, breasts, sides, back. He pushes her pants down from her hips, and then her underwear, and her underwear clings, just a little, to the wetness between her legs.

He seizes her hand in one of his, and undoes his clothing with his other. He presses her fingers against the hot, hard flesh of his cock, rubbing himself with her hand. “If you think _this_ means you control me?” he hisses, “then _this – ”_ and he presses her fingers and his to the source of her wetness – “must mean I control you.”

She can feel him pushing at her mind. She won’t allow him in; she’ll defend that border. She centers herself again. But it brings her irresistibly and entirely into her body, and her body, without sight, feels Kylo’s fingers between hers, rubbing her slick skin, like an electric shock. She bucks against his hand.

“That’s it,” he says, drawing out the words as he draws his fingers along her. She grabs at his arm with both hands as he drops it lower, to tease more wetness out of her. “That’s right.” His other hand is warm against her back, and as her knees shake, he lowers her to the mats.

She pushes out again, in the Force, the way he’s just taught her, to find him, to see what he’s doing, and he lets her, for a moment, lets her feel his lust and his pride and his power as his fingers run over her breasts and toy with her nipples and her blindfolded face contorts with pleasure. She feels the blood throbbing in his cock and the heat in his face and chest. He slips a finger into her slowly and she feels her own pleasure, which arches her back, and his excitement.

She feels his intention, too; she pants as he works his finger inside of her and she feels him open his lips and bend over her. She squirms, waiting, knowing what he means to do, but he doesn’t do it, and then she feels his second intention, to tease her, his breath tickling her and his eyes on the crinkling buds of her breasts.

"You see?" he asks her. "You see how you look now." She can feel it, seeing through his eyes; she looks helpless, the picture of surrender. Naked and wet and all but begging, her body twisting as he fingers her and her breasts straining under his mouth. And he pushes, again, trying to get into her mind, to feel how she feels. He wants to see himself through her eyes, the black shadow hovering over her with his cock hard against her long naked leg. But she still doesn't allow it; she brings herself back into herself, and once more feels the pleasure spike. She hears him shift, feels his hand spreading her legs a little wider, and then the light brush of his hair is the only warning before his tongue is on her clit.

She screams. She can't help it. She thinks she feels his smile against the lips of her cunt.

He works her, coaxing her with his fingers and slicking her with his tongue, and all the time his mind is on hers, hot and desperate. She keeps him out, keeps her mind centered in her body, where she feels him, sightless, feels every touch so intensely that she almost weeps. And when he pushes her to the edge, his tongue intent on the spot that makes her writhe and shriek, she does weep, tears running from her eyes into the concealing folds of the blindfold as her body spasms against his face.

“Let me in,” he says, urgently, pushing himself to his knees. “Let me in,” he says again, half-angry, as the smooth head of his cock rubs against the soaking mess he’s made of her. And she does not let him into her mind, not yet, but she does let him into her body, soft with pleasure and still hungry for more; she does grasp blindly at his face and his body, pulling him to her. He groans as he slides into her, groans at the way she clings to him as he pulls out, and grunts as he begins to fuck her, as deep as he can drive himself.

His head is by her head as he braces himself on the mats; she can feel his breath on her ear. “You don’t control me,” he whispers hoarsely. “Do you understand? You can’t make me do what you want.” She answers him only with a moan, and by wrapping her legs around him. She points her toe and strokes the back of his thigh and he chokes and fucks her harder. “You can’t. You can’t.” He pounds himself into her, fucking her into the mats.

She feels her body tensing again, reaching for her climax, and all at once she lets him into her mind, giving way easily. She lets him see everything: her anger, her hate, her hope, her desire; the way she’s dreamed of him, the way she’s dreamed of escaping him. Her memories of him, blood and comfort, fire and tears. She lets his own strength carry him so far and so fast that he’s lost, drowning. She writhes underneath him and she lets him see her pleasure, too, feel how hard he is inside her, how good he makes her feel. Not the dark shadow. The bare, black-haired man.

She feels him come, his body in her body and his mind in her mind, and she reaches out, again. Feels his body arch and his heart race. She feels his crushing pleasure, and his bewilderment. She lets him stay there, in her mind, as she holds him. _I don’t want to control you, Ben,_ she tells him. _I wanted you with me, but not against your will._ And as she says it she knows he has no heart to hold her captive anymore.

 _Stay. Stay,_ he says. _Don’t run._

She reaches up and lifts the blindfold off and meets his dark and pleading eyes.


End file.
